Everything is wrong with me
Sunday, December 31, 2006
For the current stuff, please go to www.jasonmulgrew.com.
This blog was started on February 13, 2004 and was the primary outlet for my garbage until December 13, 2004, when jasonmulgrew.com was opened for bidness. I continued to update this blog as a mirror site all the way until February 22, 2006, when a newer version of jasonmulgrew.com was debuted. So please go there for the latest junk.
[If you are having problems viewing the flash intro, you can click here, or just fucking get flash. Any other problems viewing the site should be directed to Site Guy Brendan at firstname.lastname@example.org]
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
diary of the world’s worst vacation, volume three: los angeles
I love Los Angeles. The first time I visited LA was in the summer of 2001, when I went to an ex’s sister’s wedding. I liked it well enough, but was only there a short time and had to do wedding-type stuff (though I managed to get in a few trips to the In-And-Out Burger).
The second time I visited I spent a week in Marina Del Ray with a friend who had recently moved out there and the city blew me away. The vibe, the people, the scene, the weather – I ate it up. That, and a lot of cocaine. But that was a long time ago. And I didn’t actually eat the cocaine, but you get it.
(I’m clean now, Mom and Dad. Swear.)
(And readers, say no to drugs. Seriously. We here at jasonmulgrew.com are anti-drugs. I’m just going to stop talking about this now because I’m pretty sure that at least one person I work with is reading, so enough.)
But recently, my relationship with LA has changed. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before on the site or not, but I’m kinda famous. This past August I went out to LA to pitch my show (which, because of the confidential nature of the project, I can’t get into). And my view of Los Angeles changed dramatically.
The whole experience of pitching gave me a 24 hour, 7 day a week boner. I’m not typically a star struck person and don’t really care about the entertainment industry, but that was before I was in the entertainment industry. While out in LA for that week in August, I had something like 23 meetings in five days, meeting with people who were responsible for creating some of the best television shows ever. I spent the week driving around town with my buddy Joe in my rental car, talking on the phone to my agent having conversations like:
Agent: "So your next meeting is with [person] over in [location] at 1:30."
Me: "Ok, what can you tell me about this person?"
Agent: [trying to make me feel like a dick] "Oh, I don’t know...he only created [my favorite show of all time]."
Me: "Oh, um, yeah. I’ve heard of that. Thanks."
[hangs up cellphone, looks over at friend Joe driving car]
Me: "I think I just pooed in my pants a little bit."
Joe: "I thought something smelled like those nachos we ate last night."
I’m not saying this to brag, but rather to express how there was a major shift in my perception of LA. It wasn’t actually a shift per se, but an amplification. While I may have been infatuated with the city before, all this Hollywood-type shit made me fall head over heels in love with it. Not to get "Aw shucks!" on you, but there I was – a fat dude with a beard and a blog – having all these serious conversations with some serious (and awesome) people, and I was happy. Very, very happy.
And so with stars in my eyes I arrived in LA on the afternoon on Thursday, February 9. My plan was to fly back to NYC on Saturday, February 11, with just enough time to go out and get blasted once more before returning to work. All was right with the world. For the next two days at least.
I met up with my agent Joel and some friends for dinner and drinks on Thursday night. Since contacting me in December of 2004, Joel has become my boy. Not just because I would kill for him because he's presented me with many incredible opportunities, most of which may someday lead to a real-live actual threesome. And not because he buys me lots of drinks and spiced meats. But because we have the same sense of humor and genuinely love each other.
Joel and I met up with some friends, Laura and Johnny, and ate something called "Korean barbeque." I didn't know that Koreans barbeque, but apparently they do, and they do it very well. I enjoyed the meal, but it's definitely one of those things where you need to go with someone who knows what they're doing. While Joel was deftly ordering for the group, I was busy drinking something called Hite and sticking my hand on the open grill in the middle of the table while making jokes like, "You know, I hear the terrier is delicious here" and "Seriously, the lhasa apso is the juiciest I've ever had." I can’t wait to go back.
The shenanigans continued the next night when I met some of the assistants from the agency for drinks. I have to give it to them – the sons (and daughters) of bitches can drink, although some of them (Allan, I’m looking in your direction) are terrible at Beirut/beer pong. But I don’t want to air any dirty laundry here, especially when that dirty laundry involves people who have the power to hold up any payment to me. So let's just move on.
I was able to enjoy myself on Friday because I didn’t have to worry about flying. By that time, news of a major pending snowstorm in the Northeast was widespread. My flight was scheduled to leave LA at noon on Saturday, arriving in NYC at 8pm. But because this storm had some serious potential and was supposed to hit NYC at precisely the same time I was to land, my flight was preemptively canceled. So instead of spending all of Friday night worrying about flying through a blizzard, I was able to go out and order a drink and two shots as soon as I got to the bar. Wonderful.
Worrying about the blizzard was reserved for Saturday morning, afternoon, and night. I woke up with a terrible hangover and after having brunch spent all day in bed, worrying about the flight. I watched the news as the snow approached the Northeast and continually checked my flight status, hoping it would be canceled. No dice. It appeared that by hell or high water, blizzard or no blizzard, I was flying to NYC on Sunday. And it freaked me the fuck out.
I know that I'm going to die young. I'm not saying this for pity or to be weird or anything - I just know this. This thought has so pervaded my consciousness that I don't think about things in the future. For example, I don't think about getting married or having kids or buying a house or anything like that. This is not because I'm lazy (which I am) or because I live in the moment (which I do), but because I know that I'm not going to make it to these things.
But don't be sad - I'm ok with this. If anything, it's almost good. It allows me to live the life I do, which, as you know, is totally fucking awesome. My entire worldview is rooted in this awareness of my own mortality and so I follow a strict regiment of the "If you're going to regret something, regret it because you did it, not because you didn't do it" mentality. So far, so good.
But I didn't want to hear that on Saturday. I knew that this was it. I knew that I was going to fly in that blizzard and I was going to die. Over. Done. I even went so far as to rationalize it by saying to myself, "Well, the good news is that at my funeral, they'll say that I had a lot of potential. I have all this stuff going on, but none of it has actually happened yet. So it's better that I check out now, while in the process of trying my hand at fame or whatever, rather than in a year or so, after I've tried, failed, and am living in my dad's basement, making out with local 16 year olds. Yeah. That sounds good."
So I coped in the only way I knew how: abusing substances. I really don't like to talk about drug use too much (really?), but I can not express how wonderful the drug Xanax is. I actually don't even abuse it, since I don't take it recreationally (I can't drink on it - makes me sleepy) but only when I really need it (when feeling anxious). Saturday qualified as feeling anxious. I went to a nearby store, picked up some ice cream, took two of those magic little pills, and spent about ten hours in bed. The highlight was probably watched back-to-back episodes of "Law and Order: Special Victims Unit" and being so moved that I wept. It just really helped me get through the night.
Sunday morning I woke up, checked out of the hotel, and headed to the airport as the snowstorm raged in the Northeast. I had popped another Xanax when I woke up - just to ease the tension - and was basically a zombie as I moved through security. It was when I got to my boarding gate that I got the announcement: Newark, JFK, and Laguardia airports were all closed. I wasn't going anywhere. Thank god.
I passed the next few days in a haze, riding a roller coaster of emotions. I waited in line for a few hours to figure out that on Monday, I'd be traveling from LA to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to Philly, and then from Philly via Amtrak to NYC. Sweet. I checked into the airport Holiday Inn and holed myself up like a true degenerate. I went out and got a twelve-pack, bought the 24 hour porn pass on the hotel pay-per-view for $35, and ordered a chicken alfredo pizza (which was probably the best pizza I've ever had: chicken, alfredo sauce, ricotta cheese, a little onions, and a little garlic). The thing about the 24 hour porn pass was that it gave me a day's worth of access to all twelve pornographic features that the hotel was offering. And I have to say, some of that shit was nasty. There was the obligatory gay porn thrown in, which I thought was tasteful but a little too long, but there were also two types of bondage movies and one movie bordering on violence. As you can imagine, I was in heaven. That is, when I wasn't feeling terribly lonely and alienated.
The next day I flew just about everywhere. Again, many props to Xanax, since I was pretty much in a haze from the moment I woke up until I woke on Tuesday in Philly. I noticed that my tolerance for traveling had been built up by my west coast drive. I didn't bat an eyelash about the four hour flight from LA to Atlanta, and the two hour flight from Atlanta to Philly seemed like nothing more than a quick trip to the supermarket. So that was nice.
When I finally got back to NYC on Tuesday afternoon, I didn't have time to enjoy myself. Site Guy Brendan set about working on our little surprise (which should be up any day now) and on the following day, I returned to work. Which has been - how do you say? - entirely fucking horrible. Just horrible. But that is a topic for another day.
Tomorrow (hopefully and thank god), the conclusion: diary of the world's worst vacation, volume four: how fucking enterprise extorted me out of $1000 (and why it's a terrible idea to write a four-part series of anything).
Wednesday, February 15, 2006
diary of the world's worst vacation, volume one: seattle
A few weeks ago, I randomly decided to head to Seattle for the Super Bowl. Faced with the prospect of returning to work, I decided to do something fun and spontaneous (read: exorbitantly more expensive than I ever imagined and intensely laborious). I booked a flight and was planned on being in Seattle from Thursday February 2 until Tuesday February 7.
I have three main friends out in Seattle: my old roommate Ben, my buddy Griff, and my friend Annie.
Long-time readers know about Ben, as he was a featured player on this site from its inception until June of 2005 when he moved back to Seattle, his hometown. I miss him, because he can drink like few other people I have ever known. Also he's always happy, which is a nice contrast to my crippling bouts of depression.
Griff and I met freshman year of college at BC. When we first met, I told him I was on a baseball scholarship, a line he bought hook, line, and sinker. Since then we've been friends, mostly because he's one of the few people who can truly tolerate my egomania. And he is Greek and I like having Greek friends. Also he knows a lot about music, though he once famously claimed that Hanson would be the best band in the world in five years. I understood his logic (if they could write catchy songs as 14 year-olds, they'd get better with age), but I will never let him live this down because it is a most retarded thing to say.
Annie and I also met freshman year of college and she's been one of my best female friends since. And to answer your question, yes, we did make out, but it was out of pity. I went to BC with four friends from high school and she made out with three of them at various points of college (only making out - all PG stuff). I lorded this over her for about four years until one day a few years ago on my birthday when I was going on and on about "what's wrong with me?" and "why am I not good enough for you?" and "it's because I touched your roommate's boob when she was passed out in that guy's van, isn't it?", she suddenly kissed me. Then I shut up. I am a very simple man.
The point: I had some friends in Seattle I wanted to see and that made the trip worthwhile. Instead of going on and on about "We did this on Thursday..." and "Then on Friday we...", I'll just give the highlights.
I've never seen a city as naturally beautiful as Seattle. It's incredible. Keep in mind though that I am a city boy and my appreciation of natural beauty isn't very sophisticated: the first time I saw a horse I thought it was a really big dog, I'm extremely excited when I get in a cab and there's no feces and/or semen on the seat, and the closest I come to nature on a daily basis is the dying plant I have in my office (apparently plants need sunlight - who knew?). But Seattle has all sorts of water and mountains on either side and shit, it's really pretty.
Of course, the weather is terrible, but I got a little lucky. It rained for the first two days, but the last two were gorgeous. Besides, I like the rain. One of my favorite things to do is to wake up hungover, look at the cold rain, and lay around in bed, doubting some of the choices I've made in my life. And you can do that pretty much every day in Seattle.
One thing that I wasn't prepared for and was not sufficiently warned about was the presence of hills throughout the city. I stayed at Ben's place and he lives on top of a very steep hill. We're talking really steep here - the kind you have to stop halfway up because you're out of breath and feel dizzy. And while I realize I'm not exactly a physical specimen, who the fuck builds a city on a bunch of hills? I mean, really? That just doesn't seem like sound urban planning to me. And maybe I'm just bitter because while walking up the hill to Ben's apartment I fell and two high school kids walking behind me made no attempt to hide their laughter. Asshole kids. Stupid hills.
The women of Seattle are attractive. Some of them are almost unconscionably attractive. They have a certain quality to them that women in LA and New York don't have. They are genuine. They aren't affected actresses or hipsters or power-broker career types, they just come as they are (and sometimes not at all - thank you, thank you very much). And I find this genuineness at once completely endearing and utterly disarming.
Real women scare me. I don't know how to talk to them. Usually, when talking to women, I can work an angle based on what I perceive to be their pretension and I can manipulate this to my advantage (or, as Arrius would say, "hadvantage"). For example, I can talk to the actress/waitress types in LA because I can riff about my development deal with a major network. I can approach hipsters in NYC because I know a lot about bands that no one has ever heard of too. And I'm comfortable with the girls who work on Wall Street because, hey, I work three blocks away from Wall Street.
(Please note that I said I "can" talk to these girls. This does not mean I do talk to them. Usually I don't talk to women at bars because I have too many things going on. You know, like buying shots and going to the bathroom and staring off into space wishing I looked like Nick Lachey.)
(And if you got that "hadvantage" reference without googling it, we truly are soulmates.)
But it is their very genuineness that makes these Seattle women unapproachable. I mean, what the hell am I supposed to talk to them about, real stuff? Like what I like to do and what I want from life? Who the hell does that when they're trying to get laid? I'm not looking for a friend here - I'm looking for someone to wake up next to in the morning and to say to me, "I have never seen so much semen come from such small testes. When was the last time you were with a woman?" My approach, like many guys, is all about shock and awe: shock them with a couple of shots of Jager and awe them with your strength - whether it be the size of your biceps or how cool your band is or in my case how I have the colon of an eighty year-old man. Gotta play to your strengths in "da game." I could not do this in Seattle, because the women there wouldn't buy it. So instead I left it up to Ben.
Ben is one of my staunchest supporters when it comes to talking about my "fame" in front of new women. In NYC, he was constantly telling women about my blog, something that never failed to repel them. This particular weekend was no exception, as he told every girl within earshot, whether he knew her or not, that I was in People as one of the 50 hottest bachelors. I feel like I've beaten this over the head, but for one last time: I am not good-looking in real life. You might think I'm being coy or fishing for compliments, but I'm not. Seriously, if you want to meet up right now, let's do so. I don't care. I'm nuts.
Anyway, Ben's persistence on letting everyone know about the People thing led to this exchange with one girl (who neither he nor I knew):
Ben: "My buddy Jason was in People magazine this summer as one of the 50 hottest bachelors - he's kind of famous."
Girl: [to me] "Really?"
Me: [trying to be bashful but imaging what she'd look like in my attic, covered in hot sauce and wearing a toolbelt] "Yeah, it was this past summer."
Girl: [a beat] "Geez...what happened since then?"
Let's all say it together: "OH SNAP!" Surprisingly, I didn't go home with that girl. I think she was like gay or something anyway.
So though beautiful, I was intimidated by the women of Seattle. All I can say is: good for them. If I'm intimidated by you, that probably means that I'm not going to be able to harm you in any way. So congratulations - you figured me out.
I wrote about this before, but I never got an explanation: are the poor-looking people that fill the streets of Seattle homeless, meth (or other drug) addicts, or just hippies? Because I really couldn't tell if they were going to ask me for change or ask me to buy their new cd. Help me out here, people.
By now, the Super Bowl is old news, so I don't want to get too into it. It was a boring, poorly-played game. I still think Pittsburgh would have won, but they won in the worst way: horrible officiating and even worse clock management. Two things that should never interfere with professional football.
I was wrong about my prediction, but prior to the game, I did write:
...one of these quarterbacks is going to have a very bad day. We’re talking a Jim Kelly/John Elway vintage 80’s/early 90’s game: 13/28, 140 yards, 1 TD, 3 INT day.Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I submit as Exhibit A Ben Roethlisberger's stats for Super Bowl XL: 9/21, 123 yards, 0 TD, 2 INT (1 rushing TD). Sure, my football picks have been crap all year long, and both my fantasy football teams finished out of the playoffs for the first time ever, but I can take solace in at least predicting that one QB would have a bad day. Can you give me at least that comfort?
The Super Bowl party was an enjoyable experience. Ben has a sixteen-seat movie theater in his apartment building (I know - must be nice) and he had about two dozen friends over to watch the game, which was catered like no other Super Bowl party I've seen before: multiple kinds of dip, pulled pork sandwiches, and some delicious stuff that I can't even tell you what it's called because I've never seen it before.
Sadly, my enjoyment of the game was limited. I was so hungover from Saturday night that I watched the third quarter from Ben's apartment, away from the crowd. When I deemed myself fit to return, I ate, ate, and ate.
I obviously extended my championship jinx to Seattle and I apologize for this. The only thing that I can say is, well, get over it. Losing sucks. Welcome to the club.
Seattle has a museum called the Experience Music Project. It's basically a hideous building with all sorts of music crap in it, from memorabilia to historical exhibits to interactive booths with instruments where you can jam with other people.
Back in my day, I was a nasty guitar player. I've written before how I was in 1.5 bands in college and how it was a great time, in no small part because after one show I got a blowjob in the woods. Which was great. But I've given up guitar because I don't really have the time for it anymore, what with all the things I have going on. But I still love music, as you all know from my recommendations on here. So the EMP was a chance to reconnect with that part of myself, the same one that has died after years of neglect and sexual abuse.
This "reconnection" involved me playing guitar as loudly and as awesomely as I possibly could, especially when females entered my vicinity. I am ashamed of how blatant this was. For example, I'd be playing by myself, just jamming away, with a volume level of seven. When I saw that some girls would soon walk by, I'd push that volume up to eleven (this one went to eleven) and do my best Hendrix impression ("Villanova Junction" is my go-to song and has historically always gotten into the ladies' pants). You won't believe it, but this didn't work. No matter how loudly or awesomely I played, I was not fellated. Which was why, I think, I gave up playing guitar in the first place.
And after I felt terrible about the whole thing. Showboating and carrying on whilst playing guitar in order to attract women - is this what I have come to? I really have nothing left, or so little left, that I have to rely on some mediocre guitar playing to impress a gaggle of sixteen year-old girls on a class trip? Sadly, the answer is yes. A major fucking yes. And I am ashamed. Majorly fucking ashamed.
(But in my defense, they were pretty hot sixteen year-olds. They just didn't make them like that back in my day.)
Seattle was the best part of my trip. I enjoyed the city, I enjoyed the company, and I enjoyed looking at the women. I woke up at 7am on Tuesday morning for my 8am flight, hungover and exhausted, and I made an impetuous decision. And it was all downhill from there.
(Tomorrow, tune in for "diary of the world's worst vacation, volume two: seattle to la".)
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
deadline = deadbeat
No blog posts this week, though I might be able to churn one out for you on Friday. I am sorry about this, but I have a major, major deadline that I’m working toward tomorrow, which may extend into Thursday (though I hope not). Then I’m off to Seattle on Thursday night, returning to NYC on the following Tuesday. So it’s possible that you may not hear from me until Wednesday, February 8.
But hear me out! We have some big things in the works here, so I ask for your patience. The blog will be back in full swing on February 13, when I return to work. This is not because I write the blog at work (Hi, Mr. Employer!), but because I will once again have some sort of regularity and routine to my life (and my big deadline will have passed). This laying around all day, masturbating to the same fucking porn clips, and not seeing any other people for days at a time stuff is stifling my creativity (at least blog-wise).
So give me some freedom on the last few days of unemployment. If it’s any consolation, I promise that I’m gathering a store of, um, stories to share when I do start blogging regularly, and in no time you’ll be reading again about how much I suck. And, let me tell you something, if I’m learning anything from this whole “deadline” thing, it’s that I truly do suck.
Actually, and maybe this is the masochist in me, but I’ve forgotten how exhilarating working under a deadline can be. Sure, I have deadlines at work and stuff, but c’mon – who takes their job seriously? I learned in college that I can work under pressure, but even then I didn’t care so much about the Popish Plot or how the health(s) of Woodrow Wilson and FDR affected their policy decisions in WWI and WWII, respectively. No, my focus was more on, “Nicole’s friend is coming up to visit this weekend and I am totally going to get her shirt off.”
And in college, papers had a page requirement that I was obsessed with: under any circumstances, even if I had to write the same sentence two or three times in a row, I was getting that fucking paper to seven pages. You can take that to the bank, Professor Bitch! Now give me my B, B-, or B+ already so I can go to take some Stackers and get fucked up at MaryAnn’s!
But this writing a) I actually care about; and b) I can not force. Sure, I have certain requirements as to length, but that’s not an issue (I’m never at a loss for words when it comes to writing about jerking off in the shower). The major issue is making it as “good” as I can. And you can’t force that; you’re either feeling it or you ain’t. And this bothers me. I guess this is what “responsibility” is. I figured I would have to learn about this someday, but I was hoping I’d do so after death. Oh well. Still, there’s something to be said for sitting in front of a computer from 10pm until 5am, debating with yourself, “So, should I use ‘poo’ or ‘poop’ here? I like the brevity of ‘poo’, but I like the extra umph that ‘poop’ gives you. God, my parents must be proud.”
Anyway, I’m rambling here. Again, I apologize for my lack of posting. But I won’t apologize too much, because pretty soon I’m going to rock your fucking world. So for now, send me your disdain, and I will accept it. But also send me some good vibrations, because I need those also. (And know that I’m thinking of you quite often – this hasn’t been easy for me either.) Until then, godspeed, and we will speak soon.
[Wish me luck on my flight to Seattle. Six and a half hours! This better be worth it. But I feel like my old roommate Ben and I are just going to spend 96 straight hours drinking cheap beer and ordering diner food for delivery in his apartment.]
[Actually, that sounds kinda good and would be worth it. God, I am so easy to please. Except for all the weird sexual stuff I’m into, what with the blood and biting and feces and all. Moving on…]
[And if I die in a plane crash, know that I will be satisfied that one of the last sentences I wrote on here ended with “blood and biting and feces.” If it’s my time, I’m ready.]
Thursday, January 26, 2006
a falsity, a stupid award, an awkward wedding moment, a trip, a shout-out, the Aussies, a vote, music
It has come to my attention that based on Tuesday’s post, many of you believe that I had sex with a man on Friday night. I assure you this is not true.
I relayed a story that I shouldn’t have and immediately after posting it, took it down. In place of this story, I wrote “[Confidential Material Redacted].” One of the major fucking problems with this blog is that too many people read it. Because of this, there is a lot of shit that happens that I can’t really write about, as it would be too detrimental to my friends, family, and relationships. In this case, I wrote something detrimental and had to quickly take it down, much to my chagrin. However, I left the quote up because I thought it was funny – not because I said it and did it – without realizing the implications it might have (my first clue came from an email from a gay friend entitled, “So you ARE gay!”). I promise that now more than ever I am a semi-normal heterosexual male. Tomorrow, later tonight, when I check out this ookie cookie clip I’m downloading when it finishes – who knows? – but right now I am 100% heterosexual.
Thank you for your understanding. I promise that eventually I will alienate every person close to me (probably sooner rather than later) and at that point I will release a book titled, “Jason Mulgrew: Shit I Couldn’t Write About Because I Was Trying To Be A Good Friend Or Just Trying To Get Laid – But Seriously, Do You Want To Fool Around Or What?” I’ll keep you posted.
As I predicted, I didn’t get a nomination for any Bloggie. I am ok with this. All the blogs nominated for “Most Humorous” are very funny and also have development deals with major networks to create a television show based on their blogs and lives. Oh wait – NO other blogger has that, just me. Sorry. I forgot about that.
But seriously folks, vote for Michelle Collins’ blog, which is actually funny. Not that it really matters. It’s just a stupid award.
(Did I mention that the director of “E.T.” signs my checks? Yeah. Just thought I’d throw that out there.)
(And yeah, I should have warned you to back away from the computer screen before reading this, lest you get hit with any venom. Sorry about that.)
Great email from Alan in Milwaukee about an, um, uncomfortable wedding moment.
Your post about inappropriate wedding songs reminded me of some that I had to play when I was a wedding DJ in the 90s.I’m assuming that Alan had a brainfart, because Billy Joel sings “Just The Way You Are.” Aside from that, I don’t really know what to say about this. But I’m letting you all know that I’m totally stealing this scene and putting into whatever the hell I’m writing. And for this I’m definitely going to hell.
The first couple, I'm guessing Top Gun fans, requested, as their bridal dance "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling" by the Righteous Brothers.
When I suggested the incongruity of the lyrics to them, they shot me a look like I had offered to date their 6 year old page boy, so I let it slide.
The second couple asked for "Just The Way You Are" by Barry White. So far, so good you might think. Unfortunately, the bride had been in a car crash that had left her a little brain damaged. Was I being oversensitive in thinking this was the musical equivalent of a huge neon sign that said "look at my spaz wife"?
(Among other things, of course.)
No trip to DC this weekend, but it appears that I will be in Seattle from February 1 (or February 2) through February 7. I am doing this because I would like to be in a city that wins a championship at least once in my life. When I moved to NYC in 2001, the Yankees were a dynasty. They haven’t won since I’ve been here. When I left Boston that same year, their teams were perennial losers. How does three Pats Super Bowls and an improbable Red Sox championship sound? Mulgrew-less. And of course, any Philly team hasn’t won in forever (1983).
(Translation: bet big on the Steelers.)
So since I have friends in Seattle, I’m heading there for the Super Bowl. And since I will be reunited with my old roommate Ben, I have alerted all the bars and all-night diners in the greater Seattle area. Because it is going to get downright ugly.
By request and out of admiration for some real men, a big shout-out to Wade and the Cherry Hill N.J. Firefighters. I know you sick fucks are reading and I’d like to thank you for doing something every day that I could never, ever do. I had to help my dad change his car battery last night and he almost had a fucking heart attack when I couldn’t even open the hood of his truck, and you guys are slaying fire on a daily basis. Props, props, and more props.
The Aussies really got up in arms over my inclusion of Pearl Jam’s “Throw Your Arms Around Me” in last week’s “Six Songs.” Stilt in Sydney puts it best:
Pearl Jam's version is a cover - if you want to hear the original (and better) version, it's by a band called Hunters and Collectors. This song is burned into the collective memory of all Australians of a certain age (say, 25 - 40) as something of a mating call / top-notch rooting* song. It can be heard sung globally wherever the sweet combination of Australians + beer + lust can be found.And I have to agree with him – the Hunters and Collectors version is indeed better. And I’m totally going to using the word “rooting” for “fucking” (i.e. “Wanna go back to my place and do some serious rooting on the stairwell?” or “So I was rooting this chick and she fucking died – right there in the passenger seat of the garbage truck!”).
Whatever you do, don't download the Paul McDermott cover version - it's four kinds of ghey.
* I'm not talking about cheering for a sports team.
Vote for Hey Tiger. Don’t ask questions, just do it. Thank you.
“I Got You” Stone Temple Pilots
Probably the best song about drug addiction by Stone Temple Pilots. I know that’s a strong statement, but I’m sticking to it.
“I’m Waiting For The Day” The Beach Boys
Look, if you don’t own Pet Sounds, send me an email and I will buy it for you. Douchebags who like music will go on and on about ten or twenty or thirty albums that any music fan absolutely must own, but to me there are only six such albums: Pet Sounds, The White Album, Led Zeppelin II, Thriller, Appetite for Destruction, Nevermind. If you have these six, you have a pretty good idea of what all other popular music sounds like from the past forty years (any my apologies for my white rock bias; I am white and I doth rock).
It’s hard to explain my affinity for this track. I like it because I think it sounds more quintessentially “Beach Boys” than any other song they’ve done, but it’s not a hit. And it’s not about surfing or cars or other shit (though nothing on Pet Sounds is, save for maybe “Sloop John B”) – it’s about loving a girl who’s still in love with her ex. Just a solid A+ song.
(Now to make up for my white rock bias…)
“Dip-Set Forever” Cam’ron
Oh, Cam’ron – feuding with Jay-Z? Really? You realize that Jay-Z is a great rapper and you stink, right? What’s so particularly frustrating about Cam’ron is that Kanye and Co. give him some incredible beats that he squanders with the dumbest rhymes in rap (possibly even the worst rhymes in rap history – I’m in no way qualified to make this statement, but I can’t imagine much worse). It’s to the point that I’ll listen to his songs and just shake my head, thinking, “What the fuck is he talking about? I mean, I’m white and all, but I think I usually have some idea of what rappers are talking about. Is he retarded or just really, really dumb?”
This song is no exception and possibly the most egregious example of the awesome beats + shitty rhymes. I am a 200+ pound white Irish Catholic guy with a beard who has never held a gun, has no sense of style, and even less of an idea how to please a woman, but if you gave me this beat I am about 95% sure I could come up with some better rhymes than Cam’ron has. Let’s listen in, shall we?
Top a top on top of the topUm, come again? Again, I realize that one shouldn’t look to rap lyrics for divine inspiration, but “Top a top on top of the top?” Can anyone explain this to me?
But yo - nothing definite
I chop up the rocks
And I stop up the drop
Blocka Blocka the block
Hello mate, yellow tape, helicopter your spot
What you wanted is not what you got
And I pop up them cops
Cause dogg, it ain't about Cam (It ain't about me)
I got a son homeboy, it's about Cam (For that?)
It's about being ‘bout It
If you're not, you're ass backwards
Anyway, it’s a good beat, so I’ll keep listening to it and just freestyling my own lyrics. I’m actually quite a good rapper. Add that to my resume, bitch.
“Stay With Me” Rod Stewart and the Small Faces
My roommate Brian and I recently had a discussion: what musician do you think had the most sex in the 70’s and the 80’s? My original answer was Ted Nugent. The logic was that though he wasn’t an A-list rock star, any rock star can pretty much get all the sex they want (the quality may differ, but the quantity will be there). So then it comes down to who wants the sex the most. For example, I have very little interest in the physical act of love. This is probably because I’m addicted to porn and also (not-so) secretly deeply misogynistic, but it works out since I don’t get laid much. But Ted Nugent, on the other hand, was addicted to sex. So I went with Ted Nugent.
But then I remembered Sir Rod Stewart. NOBODY gets more p-ssy (I don’t use that word outside of the bedroom) than Sir Rod, and this song is the perfect example why. From the man who said of marriage, “Instead of getting married again, I’m just going to go up to a woman I hate and give her a house,” we have “Stay With Me” and this lyrical gem:
So in the morningFuck yeah, Rod. Fuck yeah. That doesn’t even really rhyme and it’s still totally fucking awesome.
Please don’t say you love me
’Cause you know I’ll only kick you out the door
Yeah, I’ll pay your cab fare home
You can even use my best cologne
Just don’t be here in the morning when I wake up
[Remember, the song is called “Stay With Me”, which basically means Rod’s pleading with a chick to come home/stay with him, but then after he gets his nut off, to get the fuck out. Geez – even I want to fuck him now. Not that that’s saying much, but still.]
If you can put this song on and not strut around your living room like you’re the cock of the walk, you are a better man than I. Kudos to you, Sir Rod, you magnificent son of a bitch.
“There Is An End” The Greenhornes (with Holly Golightly)
Some reader whose name nor email I can find introduced me to the Greenhornes, like the Black Keys, an Ohio band. They are spectacular and I am very grateful to this person. This sound like they are from 1967 (listen also to ten seconds of “Don’t Come Running To Me” and you’ll see why). That’s the only way I can explain their sound really, and if you listen to their stuff, you’ll agree. “There Is An End” has a dark, spacey sound to it – the ideal song to have a drug flashback to. After hearing it, I immediately moved it to my “The Soundtrack” playlist, which is a list of songs I listen to while changing TV/movie/literary history forever and creating some of the finest humor the world has ever (or rather, will ever) see(n). Then I usually get high and listen to this and feel warm. Check it out for yourself.
“Elizabeth, You Were Born To Play That Part” Ryan Adams
Jesus fucking Christ. This guy’s music should come with a warning label:
“If you are heartbroken, have recently been dumped, divorced or separated; if are lonely because you are overweight and/or ugly; if you are confused because you are in love with someone’s else lover; or if you are sad because you are gaining more and more weight and are worried that you might actually expire the next time you have sex (if you have sex ever again); do NOT listen to this album. Seriously. It will fuck you up.”
This song is not for the faint of heart. After listening to it, I have only one thought: who is this woman doing this to you, Ryan? What kind of harpie must she be to cause you such pain? Please tell me her name and I will find her and hurt her physically for the pain she has caused you emotionally. I haven’t hit a woman in over six weeks now, but I’m willing to put aside that streak to make you feel better. Drop me a line at email@example.com.
(Translation: an incredible piece of music. This guy is a stone cold genius. I want to be his friend.)
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
three weekend vignettes (not really)
It is obvious that I am trying to do as much damage as possible to myself and my body before I go back to work.
As many of y’all know, I have been off from my regular job working on my projects (namely this and something else). I go back to work full-time on February 13. This will be a sad, sad day for me.
As February 13 approaches, I have been really stepping it up in the “bender” department. I have become nocturnal, regularly going to sleep each night around 5am, and only with the help of at least a half dozen PBRs and at least one Xanax. But my opportunities for mischief are limited during the week because my friends actually work and so can’t go out on a Tuesday night until 3am (suckers).
So it is the weekend when I really fly off the handle. And each weekend seems to get worse and worse. Let’s break this past one down:
- Thursday night I was in Philly. The night ended with me smoking a joint in my buddy’s car at 5am in the parking lot of a Toys R Us, after consuming (conservatively) two dozen broccoli cheese puffs at an all-night diner. We went to a local bar that night with the original intention of “taking it easy.” Oops.
- Friday night back in NYC I almost got into a fight with some drunk-ass hipster who was harassing a woman that I had told the entire bar was my ex-wife (and so I was obligated to stand up for her). I won when he got up from the table, almost fell, and so was kicked out of the bar. Good for him and me both – I would have murdered him and you would be reading the tales of “Jason Mulgrew: Prison Beat Rag” if he hadn’t gotten kicked out.
- Saturday night my roommate Brian and I had a push-up contest outside a bar on the Lower East Side (Final Score: Me 1.5, Brian 30+). It was just as embarrassing as it sounds.
And it doesn’t look like it’ll end anytime soon, with a tentative trip to DC this weekend and a trip to either Seattle or London for Super Bowl weekend (thank you, Mastercard – I will see you in hell where I will continue to F you in the heinie).
But there are three things worth noting from this weekend.
Whenever one of our friends starts talking to a girl at a bar – and she actually talks back to him – instead of being happy for him, the others are jealous. Not only are we single, but we are terrible friends.
My buddy Matt was talking to a cute girl on Friday night. Matt probably does the best of all of us when it comes to women (although that isn’t saying much among my friends; if you’re using a condom for its intended purpose rather than to masturbate into it in the shower because the warmth and the latex really gets you randy, then you’re doing best among us).
Matt left his girl momentarily to go to the bathroom and the best way that I can describe the ensuing scene was that it was akin to a running back fumbling the ball and a scrum breaking out. Immediately after he left, I could almost hear Joe Buck in the corner announcing, “Handoff to Matt up the middle and HE LOSES THE BALL! Matt has fumbled! The Drunks are diving all over it as the refs try to see who’s got possession!” Immediately after he left, the rest of us descended upon her like a loose ball, figuring “Hey, Matt left, so she’s totally up for grabs!”, about six of us talking to her at once, trying to wrest her away from the others with witty lines and charm as opposed to strength and eye-gouging.
I was pretty messed up at that point, but I managed to get my golden exchange in there:
Jason: “What do you do?”
Girl: [Says something, but I’m not listening because I can’t wait to see how she creams her pants when I tell her I’m a writer.]
Jason: “That’s cool. Do you like it?”
Girl: [More talk, but it goes right through me. Getting slightly aroused as time for the “I’m a writer” line approaches.]
Jason: “That’s cool.”
Girl: “What do you do?”
Jason: “Oh, me? Well, I’m a writer.”
Girl: [Sees through my attempt; doesn’t take bait because hey – I’m still not good looking and I’ve spent the last four minutes looking directly at her cleavage a she spoke] “Oh, nice. [turning away] So Mike, how do you know Lisa?”
[Jason is picked off pile by referees.]
Eventually, Matt was able to get the ball back and talk to her after he returned from the bathroom. I suppose it wasn’t a fumble at all; that his knee was actually down before the ball came out. I’d like to say the night ended with something exciting, perhaps shower sex, but he only get her number (thanks not at all to us, of course).
The Sunday 50
On Sunday, I was feeling pretty horrible. The hangover + the push-up from the night before left me feeling sore, tired, and emotionally troubled. Or something.
But inspiration came to me, as it often does, whilst I was taking a whiz. I had a plan for the day, a goal that, should I accomplish it, would take me out of any psychological funk I was in: I would consume any combination of 50 beers and buffalo wings that day. To clarify, that’s any combination, i.e. 30 beers and 20 wings, 45 wings and 5 beers, etc. All I had to do was get to 50 total.
The best break-down, I thought, was 17 beers and 33 wings. I felt confident that I could do both in the allotted time. There was no time limit, aside from accomplishing this during the eight hours of football games on Sunday. So, um, I guess there was a time limit. But it’s a long time.
I asked my roommate Brian to take part in this but he refused, citing that whole “work” thing as the reason he couldn’t drink 15 beers. So I was flying solo.
And let me tell you something – I didn’t even come close. I had grossly overestimated myself. After a dozen wings and four beers, I started feeling dizzy. Around wing 20 and beer 9, I started going into anaphylactic shock. I had to quit shortly thereafter, because I stopped responding loud noises or bright lights, lying on the couch with my eyes wide open, drool and wing sauce dripping down my chin.
But despite such a resounding defeat, I bet I can do this. And I will do this, even if I have to train all off-season and do it next football season. It will be done.
“You think that’s bad – I was so drunk on Friday I fucked a guy!”
[CONFIDENTIAL MATERIAL REDACTED]
[You guys may not get much this week. I have a big deadline coming up and I blew off every plan I had in NYC this week to return to Philly, where I get a lot of work done. So don’t expect much. And if you hate me, remember that I return to normality on 2/13, so then regular posts will come flying at you. Thank you for your support.]
[And I’m still having a lot of problems with emails, getting some, but getting blank emails from others. No idea why. Also, it turns out that a few days of emails from last week were randomly deleted. So I’m sorry if I don’t respond. I wouldn’t send emails until this is worked out. Or send at your own peril. Thanks again.]
Monday, January 23, 2006
If you sent me an email today, I did not get it. Well, I got it, but I couldn’t read it. The email system is all sorts of messed up right now, though I do not know why nor will I explain how, since it’s too long and boring. I’m also not really going to do anything to fix it, aside from hoping it gets better. Bottom line: send your emails later if you are so inclined and would like me to read them.
Thank you for your understanding.